


Confession

by StarcrossedButcher



Series: In the Inquisitor's Wake [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 03:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6178084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarcrossedButcher/pseuds/StarcrossedButcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Therapy. Dorian, returned to his post at Minrathous, receives an invitation to spend some time with Bull. After the time that has passed, Dorian worries if their relationship, as it were, remains the same. Bull proves it does. Dorian x Bull. Past Dorian/m!inquisitor, past The Iron Bull/m!Inquisitor. Major Character Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was only by chance that Dorian had picked up the communication crystal in the first place. He'd shuffled it away the day he'd received final word of the Inquisitor's death—away to some box in some drawer of the desk that occupied most of one corner of his private office in the Tevintris Curia. Then, this, many weeks since he'd returned to Tevinter after Lavellan's Dalish death rites, he'd merely been filing away paperwork after an arduous session in the Senate and stumbled upon it once more.

Which leaves him, here, sitting in the plush, finely leathered armchair of his office, clutching the faintly glowing crystal, and wearing an expression between fond nostalgia and heartbreak. After what must be several minutes, he reaches into the crystal with his magic, and whispers, “Are you—are you there, Amate?”

There is no response. Dorian cannot decide if he is disappointed or relieved.

“If you can hear this, ” he continues, regardless, “wherever you are, you must know that I am so, so terribly sorry, my old friend.”

This must be something like prayer, he thinks. His shoulders slouch forward with the weight of this almost-confession, yet he feels as though tremendous burden lifts from him.

Until there's a hiss from the crystal.

Dorian's heart leaps into his throat. He casts the crystal away from him, and it thuds dully onto the desk. Taken aback, body tremulous, Dorian keeps his frightened stare on the stone now lit only by the soft dawn light streaming in from the high windows of the office. It can't be, he's thinking, it's impossible.

Once his head has cleared, somewhat, he realizes, someone has probably nicked the late Inquisitor's crystal, thinking it a bauble, or perhaps Josephine is taking it into storage.

He takes the crystal up once more and activates it. He catches the end of a hushed, urgent, gruff voice: “—dan, you've gotta say something if you're in this thing.”

“This is Dorian Pavus,” he barks. “Identify yourself.”

“Dorian?” inquires a voice that Dorian now recognizes as that of Iron Bull. “Well, I'll be an ass-fucked nug.”

“Bull? Why do you have Lavellan's communication crystal?”

There's a loud chuckle and an intake of breath that sounds a lot more difficult than Dorian is sure he's heard from the Qunari. And he's heard a lot from him.

“Is that what this is? I used to catch him with this thing at all hours of the night, laughing, shouting, consoling—anytime I'd ask who he was talking to, he'd just smile real big and say, 'A friend, Bull.'”

Dorian has to grin, partly at the memories Bull brings to mind and partly due to his impression of the Herald. “Yes, I do believe some of our more heated debates did escalate to shouting.”

“Well, I'm just glad my lover wasn't secretly going nuts and talking to himself or—“ Dorian has to imagine the shudder. “—Demons.”

Dorian tries, again, “You still haven't answered, Bull. Where did you get this?”

A sigh. “I've been carrying this around since...” He doesn't have to finish. Since _he_ died.

“I understand.”

“Yeah.” There's what Dorian has to assume is a Qunari-sized sniffle. “Anyway, this is strangely fortuitous timing. The Chargers and me, we're in Nevarra. The City, to be precise.”

Dorian straightens sharply in his seat from surprise. “That close? What are you doing there?”

“Escort request for some Royal Scholar out of Val Royeaux. Had hoped to get in touch with an old contact buddy of mine, too, while I was here, but from what I understand he's out to Weisshaupt, and the stuff going on out there... Well, I haven't heard from him. I don't know. Not my Chantry, not my Sisters.”

Dorian groans and rubs his face with one hand. “Of course, there are Ben-Hassrath in Nevarra.”

“Don't get your silks in a twist, Magister Pavus. There are, but they've been there so long, you've been dealing with them without even realizing. And this guy wasn't Ben-Hassrath, anyway. Far from it.”

“Forgive me,” comes the reply as said Magister sinks back into his chair, “if I am not immediately overcome with relief.”

“Well, if you aren't, I could always help with that. Especially the _overcome_ part.”

Dorian cannot help the lewd smile that spreads across his. “Iron Bull, are you _flirting_ with me? A Qunari savage propositioning a member of the Magisterium!”

“ _The_ Iron Bull; remember the article.” A short chuckle. “And I was more outright saying we should screw.”

“How charming! I daresay this is what passes for subtlety among your people.”

“Yes, yes. But what do you say, hmm? It's only a few days' ride to somewhere halfway. I've got a little town just off the Imperial Highway in mind. Or the rest of the boys could smuggle me and Krem into Minrathous, if you could keep a Qunari invasion out of the ears of the Magisterium.”

Dorian was silent for a moment, contemplating. Then, with a thrill of adrenaline, he spoke: “As much as I'd love to be subjected to a, ah, _Qunari invasion_ , I confess, I'd much rather see you as far from Minrathous as possible. But yes. I would like to see you.” Resolute.

“I'll let the boys know.”

“And I should get back to—what, what was I doing?”

Over the next few days, the communicator crystals rarely stays silent for more than a half hour at a time. Since Bull is no mage, Dorian keeps a passive mana font feeding the amulet to keep the line open. Bull and he swap banter as he left word of his holiday with his servants—recently freed from their indenture to the estate and retained with handsome salaries—and closes his personal office for the Senatorial recess. Bull's tales of jobs and high jinks along the way make the days of travel pass far more quickly.

But then, he is there, at a small tavern in a quiet town Dorian thinks his father and he might have visited in his childhood. Waiting for Bull to show up. And he is nervous, in all ways good and bad.

It has been some time since those confessions between the Qunari and Tevinter outcasts at Skyhold after the Inquisitor's death. And the subsequent days spent in each other's arms. And his eventual inability to ignore his calls back to the Imperial Capital. And Dorian simply doesn't know if Bull still feels the same.

If anyone were to ask, of course, he'd dismiss such a question—“Of course, he misses me. Who wouldn't miss me? I'm a national treasure!”—but now, left alone with himself...

“Dorian!” the crystal rings out, “I'm here. Meet me 'round back.”

Ripped from his reverie, Dorian stands and exits the tavern after putting down coin for the mediocre wine he'd been sipping.

Wending his way around the simple stone exterior of the booze hall, surely enough, he finds a large, cloaked figure with painfully conspicuous headgear waiting for him. Wordlessly, he beckons the mage to follow him through snow-heavy winds and slushy streets, far, far into the fringes of the town.  
Just as sunset tinges the sky in shades of fire, just once Dorian is certain he can smell the livestock, Bull directs him through the servants' entrance of a decidedly exceptionally comely home. Once inside, the Qunari removes his cowl with a gasp and pants as he unwraps it from himself.

“Piece of crap snoufleur leather crap!”

Dorian can see the sweat on Bull's distressed visage, and it brings a broad smile to his own. Once Bull sees it, he immediately returns it and, moving close and taking Dorian's face in his hands, raises Dorian a kiss, tender, intent, but ultimately chaste.

“You're looking good, Magister Pavus,” he says once it has ended. “I'm so glad you could make it out here.”

Dorian lets out a sappy chortle, then, replies, “As am I, Bull. Immensely.” It's then that Dorian smells food. “By the way, I wasn't aware any Tal-Vashoth had been granted property or title, and certainly not so far south.”

“No, no,” Bull says, waving one hand and taking Dorian's in the the other to lead him further into the domicile. “This place belongs to that contact I mentioned. His wife has very generously offered to put us up for as long as you can spare.”

“She doesn't know I'm—“

“As far as she is concerned, you are my plus one and not a jot more.”

Dorian takes Bull's hand in both of his (still not quite enough to cover it) and squeezes. “You've thought of everything, haven't you?”

The face that turns to meet Dorian's unexpectedly soft expression is one of pure lechery. “Oh, I've thought of quite a bit, Tevinter.”

When they finally reach the dining room, it is lit only by the warm glow of a single candelabra in the center of an intimate table, and a slave, human, is just uncovering the second of two splendid-looking dishes set on either side of it.

Bull directs Dorian to one chair and practically pushes him into it so he can scoot the wooden legs along the floor and in toward the table while he takes the seat immediately opposite.

“So,” Bull prompts as he starts to run his knife through what appears a considerable section of the haunch of a large land beast, “Let's catch up. For real. How's the month been?”

Catch up they do. Bull speaks of the homesickness the Chargers have felt, collectively, for the Inquisition. Dorian talks of the ever-beleaguering politics of the Imperial Senate. And in no time the meal is finished and they're stands as the table is tended to by three or four more slaves. They are then joined by their apparent hostess, Dorian believes, who is dressed in gorgeous velvet and satin with elaborate embroidery all along the trim that bears a striking resemblance to Old Tevene heraldry. .

“I bid you both the most heartfelt of welcomes,” the Lady says in an accent Dorian cannot place for the life of him. “I trust the meal was satisfactory?”

Dorian offers her a bow from the waist. “Simply exquisite, madame.”

Bull, on the other hand, gives her what appears to be a bone-crushing hug. “You know your food is always impeccable, Antonia.”

She smiles warmly, hugging Bull back and nodding in acknowledgment to Dorian. “You both flatter me. Since my husband's absence, entertaining has been my greatest joy.”

Just then, a slave enters, whispers into Lady Antonia's ear and passes into her hands a sealed missive with the seal of a silver griffon on it. She smiles to her guests, then, excuses herself, and she and slave both exit.

Bull, then, puts a hand around Dorian's waist and murmurs, “For our part, this is where it's going to get _good_.”

Much later, and in far fewer clothes, Mage and Warrior lay upon the generous bed of a room in Lady Antonia's guest wing, wrapped around one another, panting as each comes down from their respective release.

“So good,” Bull pants into Dorian's neck. “Have you—since we last—?”

Dorian shakes his head. “No, no one else,” he confesses, “I'd hoped something like this...”

Bull chuckles and pulls Dorian closer to himself. “Damn, you are divine.”

Choked laughter is his only response. “A statement with quite different meaning in this country.”

The Qunari shakes his giant horned head, still occasionally gasping. “Fair point, kadan, but—”

And then, as it only could, disaster strikes.

Or Lady Antonia does.

With a screech of “Ebost issala, hissrad!” she leaps from the shadows with a dagger that plunges straight through Bull's back and into a lung, if Dorian guesses right.

But Dorian is too focused on Immolating their attacker to double check too closely. So, he only perceives the groan of pain from Bull, the shriek of fear as most of the Lady's body is set aflame, and the rush of the adrenaline making this all possible.

The woman is flung backwards, slamming into a wall, then, sinking to the ground in tears and sobs, though if Dorian were to listen more closely, he'd know it wasn't simply from the newly charred flesh of her body. But he isn't listening to that.

Because Bull is starting to convulse.


	2. Chapter 2

Bull has been poisoned, before—Ben-Hassrath who don't know what poison feels like can't know when or how to react to it, nor can they make informed decisions on how to apply it—but he has never held anything but contempt for it. Beyond the obvious discomfort from the toxins, he finds it immoral, cowardly, a dick move. And this is no exception.

The moment he regains a shred of lucidity, Bull roars in displeasure, flailing what limbs he can only to find himself sluggish and sore, and he's been bound, on top of it, with—uh—linen?

In the stone yet plushly decorated room in which he finds himself, a dim candle flickers meekly combating what Bull determines must be early dusk reaching in through windows made of overly-elaborate glassworks the likes of which he's never seen in Nevarra, before. He's lying face-up on a bed that's actually large enough to be comfortable, and covered with high-threadcount sheets because... what, it's too warm for for a comforter?

Quickly, regret sets in at the noise he's made. He knows not where he is, he has no clue as to how he got there, and he's quite certain who- or what-ever facilitated either won't be too eager to let him leave.

The sound of tense, bickering voices approach, as Bull can only just hear through what he identifies as a thick wooden door. And so, he resumes a feinted version of his previous unresponsive state just as the door slams open. And those tense voices, now outright angry, invade the room.

“If your father knew this is how you'd repay his many kindnesses—“

“My father's knowledge could fill many rooms, and none of them would contain a shred to do with me, so I suppose that's just another thing he didn't know.”

“Sir, I've received the Live-Subject Research License from the Circle of Magi Adjacent Studies office Clerk.”

“Fantastic.”

Except for the first one, Bull recognizes the voices: Krem and, of all people, Dorian. What is the pretty man doing so far south of Minrathous? Nevertheless, he elects to remain silent and motionless.

Or he means to, until Dorian lets out an impatient sigh, then, says, “Get up, Bull. We've got business.”

For whatever reason, Bull immediately gives in, opens his eyes and sits up, ignoring the aches throughout his body.

“Hey, Dorian,” Bull says casual as ever, turning toward the moustachio'd man, “What are you doing in Nevarra?”

Dorian sighs, again, “Of course, the sedatives would affect your memory. Or maybe the antidote? Can't have been the emetic...”

“Not in Nevarra, then, huh?”

“Minrathous.”

“Peachy.”

Yes, it's Dorian and Krem, the former with a consternated scowl and arms folded tightly over his well-muscled chest—Bull is quite pleased to see it, again, though a small part of him does wish he could see it a bit more nude—and the latter looking aghast and as if he is only moments from dropping the many papers he is carrying in trembling hands.

The third voice belongs to a stubby woman with a pinched face and fine clothes. “This is inconceivably brash, Magister Pavus. It's unprecedented. Your actions today fly in the face of every single protocol established in the Senate since its birth.”

Bull knows that eye roll. “Every single protocol? Including the rules against mutual masturbation in the Curia?” Bull knows it means Dorian is done with the conversation. “Surely not that one. Not today.”

The Shrew-woman, as Bull now identifies her in mind, makes an odd choking sound before turning on heel with a sweep of her fantastic robes and storms out. Like a furious, magenta storm in the shape of a shrew that smells of grenadine.

“What've you done this time, Tevinter?”

“Maybe consider a more specific slur for one or both of us?” Krem says before tossing the papers onto a table against a wall, crossing the room, and pulling Bull into a crushing, painful hug. It knocks the breath out of him, and it really, really should not, strong as Krem is. When the small man straightens back up, he has an face full of earnest relief. “I—I never thought I'd be this glad to see you up and talking, Chief.”

“Sure thing,” Bull grunts with mirth, “I'll call you 'Vince,' and he can be 'Blood Mage.'” There's no laughter, not even a grumble, and it's fine, because it's not like he was married to the joke. Instead, Krem straightens up and returns to the papers on the table. “Maybe you two should just catch me up on my life, because I gotta be honest, I'm doing just about all I can not to start screaming like a loon.”

Dorian takes a seat in a creaky chair beside Bull's bed and, in somber tones, recounts the events of the past fortnight. The crystal, the trip, the reunion—he spares the details of the lovemaking for what he thinks is Krem's sake—and finally the attack.

“What the hell do you mean, Lady Antonia is a 'Viddathari Tal-Vashoth'?”

“Her husband, your contact, is a former Magisterium spymaster and, she, a Ben-Hassrath agent. They eloped quietly to Nevarra in the hopes that they could escape all that while still maintaining some of their respective holdings in Tevinter.”

“No, I got that part. I just—okay, neither of us have the patience for me to give you the full lecture on why 'Viddathari Tal-Vashoth' doesn't even make sense.”

“Very well, then.”

Dorian continues explaining, how as she began to heal her wounds with magic between sobs, she was cursing his name, shouting accusations of coercing him into investigating Weisshaupt, and it was certainly his fault she'd received a message that she took as strong indication of his death. How Dorian had told her of their own agents vanishing to the Warden fortress without prompting, and how they certainly wouldn't have sent them. The horror that crossed her face when she realized her mistake in her grief.

“She immediately jotted down a recipe for some Qunari panacea I've never seen or heard of with instructions on treating the poison she laced her blades with. She also fixed the damage to your internal organs. I've never seen such a powerful healer, truth be told.”

“It's scary to think how much better she must be at being a Spy, if that's the case; they'd never send a woman, much less a woman Saarebas out in the Ben-Hassrath unless she was essentially perfect.”

“She may well have been.”

At this point, Krem stands and announces, “I need to go check on the boys, sir. Send for me if you need anything.”

Bull says, “Good man. And don't call me, 'Sir,'” just as Dorian nods and waves him off, which leads Krem to shoot a quick glance to Dorian, then, to Bull, and back, give a quick bow, and _scamper_ off, slamming the door behind him.

It also leads Bull to squint at Dorian with suspicion. “Huh,” he grumbles. “Not that I mind the familiarity you two have developed, and sure, we're getting... _very_ close, but are we really at a 'Commanding Each Other's Respective Forces' stage in our relationship, Dorian?”

A sigh (Dorian's third tonight, if Bull has been counting right). “Bull, I know you're going to be angry, and I know it'll be worse if I try to bullshit you, but I've been told not to expose you to unnecessary stress.”

The suspicion morphing into blessed neutral annoyance on Bull's face does not reassure Dorian, but he continues, “At least, _try_ to take this well?”

“No. Promises.”

“Thanks to an abundance of favors I was otherwise never going to call in, a portrait of me with a young girl in rather shocking dress (or rather a shocking lack thereof), and bags—literally bags—of money, Krem has been pardoned, given land, and appointed to the Bureaucracy. And he works for me.”

“Oh, no, no. Krem works for me, Tevinter, and no amount of string-pulling is going to—“

Said Tevinter stands with a stomp of a booted foot, and he snaps, “Bull, as fond as I am of that mouth of yours, shut it and let me finish.”

And he does. And he knows, then, that something is very wrong.

“No, _kaffas_ , I meant—ugh! It doesn't matter. You need to know that you are indentured to me under a Vinculum Sanguinarium.”

A dark, dark look falls over Bull's face, and his fists clench into tight balls. But he says nothing.

Dorian begins to pace madly, blustering, “It's only for another week or so before you're well enough to head back with the Chargers. Yes, I know how you feel about blood magic, yes, I know how hard my face would be pounded in, were it not for the specifics of the contract, and above all else, yes, if I thought I had any other choice, I would have taken it immediately.” Dorian finally stops to look with quickly moistening eyes to plead with Bull. Then, he realizes. “Oh, er... Please, speak freely.”

“Blood Magic, Dorian?” Bull practically growls (Dorian is very familiar with Bull's growls, but he cannot be as excited to hear this particular one). “You bound me with Blood Magic? You must have caught Krem with one of these deals, too, because there's no way he'd—“ Dorian looks away, refuses to meet Bull's eyes, really—“Unless... This... This was Krem's idea.”

“Your captain knows a great deal about both Magic and Magisterium politics for a member of the Soporati. Honestly, he would be quite deserving of an actual position in the Bureaucracy.”

“Yeah, Krem's good like that,” Bull mutters, looking for all the world like he thinks just the opposite.

Dorian comes to sit at the edge of Bull's bed and places a hand over one of Bull's. “I swear, I only did this because I—because I had to make sure you would be all right. I had no way of doing that outside of Minrathous.”

The Qunari is silent a moment before slumping and murmuring, “No, I understand. If I had to use blood magic to save Krem or one of the other boys...”

“It was the only way to convince the Senate not to rain brimstone on my family's estate for harboring a giant horned savage, Tal-Vashoth or not. And the same goes for Krem's appointment and reinstatement as a citizen.”

Bull takes Dorian's hand in his own and squeezes, huffs a chestful of air (surprisingly little, but the healing lung explains that). “How _did_ you manage to get a pardon for a deserter and fraud artist?”

The mage laughs with a sort of pride different from his usual narcissistic act. “Make both untrue. A slight yet justified alteration of his birth documentation? His application was never fraudulent in the first place. And a low-life Soporatus extorting one of our noble, brave soldiers into fleeing the country is not only a more heinous crime than the flight itself, but a tragedy exemplifying our need for more support for our troops.”

A grin forms on Bull's face. “You devilishly cunning Tevinter magister, you.”

“Naturally.”

Bull pulls Dorian by the hand, pulls him close enough that they're practically chest to chest, close enough that he can feel Dorian's moustache if he moves in the slightest. “So,” he whispers against the other man's lips, “before I got shanked, did I get a chance to tell you how much I'd missed you?”

Dorian's smile presses against Bull's mouth before the reply comes: “And many other, dirtier things, yes. Showed me a bit, too. And I had a few words in, as well.”

Never before could someone likely have said they'd witnessed a Qunari pouting, but now, Bull does his best to look put-upon. “Now, Magister Pavus, I'd say it's a bit unfair that only you get to remember all that while I'm in this state.”

Dorian moves to straddle Bull's lap in the bed, wrapping both arms around his thick neck. “Well, first things first: disregard any of my previous commands, if you'd like. But I'd very much like to recreate those memories with you.”

"Can do."


End file.
